Читать книгу The Breath of God - Jeffrey Small - Страница 10

CHAPTER 2

BIRMINGHAM, ALABAMA

A GUITAR RIFF RIPPED THROUGH the bank of speakers suspended over the stage. Each of the five thousand audience members stood, some on their tiptoes for a better view, most with arms in the air, and all bathed in the colorful stage lights that washed over them. Tears rolled out of the closed eyes of more than a few women in the front rows.

Brian Brady grinned at the crowd, enjoying the frenzy he’d created. Sweat ran from his silver-streaked hair down the sides of his tanned face. God, he loved this. Twenty years, and he never tired of the rush of the crowd’s adulation.

In synch with the drummer punctuating the end of the song, Brady raised both arms, embracing his people. He called out hoarsely through the wireless microphone attached behind his ear, “Let me hear you one more time!”

In unison the congregation responded, “Praise Jesus!”

“Who’s down with JC?”

“We are!” they screamed.

“If you are on the Lord’s team, what are you?”

“Saved!”

“If you are out of Christ, what are you?”

“Condemned!”

“We, the Army of the Righteous, shall bring light to the darkness,” Reverend Brady proclaimed in his smooth southern baritone, punching his fist in the air to the cheers of the congregation.

He lowered his arms palms down. Then he grinned at the crowd, showcasing his newly bleached teeth. “Can we chat?” He took a folding chair from a techie who rushed from backstage to meet him.

“You go, Reverend,” a voice called out from the middle of the congregation. A chorus of laughter sprinkled through the church.

Brady settled his two-hundred-pound frame into the chair, alone in the center of the stage. He straightened the lapel on his Armani suit, black with a fine blue pinstripe. The band Rapture stood behind him stage right; opposite them the thirty-member choir stood on risers, their crimson robes blowing from the powerful fans hidden offstage. Surveying the audience as they anticipated the topic of this Sunday’s sermon, Reverend Brady spoke in the disarming tone he used to connect with his people, as if he were sharing iced tea with each of them alone in their living rooms.

“I am troubled, my friends. I’m troubled with the corruption of our once great nation.” He paused, allowing the thought to sink in. When he spoke, he did so deliberately, enunciating each syllable so that the echo in the cavernous New Hope Church of God wouldn’t muffle his words.

“Corruption in our country takes many forms: the eradication of religion from our schools, our children’s fascination with the occult in the Harry Potter and Twilight books, sex and violence in our television shows, politicians who care more about saving their elections than saving their constituents.”

Leaning forward on the edge of his seat, he continued, “But today, we will talk about Satan’s more subtle temptations. My friends, I’m here to warn you that sin targets not just the unfaithful. It targets you as well.”

Murmurs spread through the congregation. Brady immediately noticed the man in the front row who sat ramrod straight, perched on his seat like a cobra waiting to strike. His crew cut was sprinkled with signs of premature gray, the deep crease between his eyes adding to the illusion of age beyond his years. The stage lights brought out the worst of the man’s eczema: the top layer of skin on his face was flaking away, exposing the red flesh underneath. Brady paused to give thanks to the Lord for his own flawless complexion.

“Now, I don’t wish to cast stones at anyone ...”

Brady rose from his chair, descended the marble steps to the front row, and placed a hand on the shoulder of a midthirties blonde in a pastel cotton dress that complemented her athletic physique. Brady scanned the aisle to see where his camera guy was kneeling and turned his body to block any shot of the eczema man sitting two seats away. He was always conscious of who was being projected onto the giant screen suspended over the stage.

“But last Thursday evening, when I was picking up some groceries, I noticed Barbara Howell here coming out of the yoga studio in the shopping center off Montevallo Road.”

Barbara gazed up at the reverend as a child might look at a parent, knowing she was in trouble but unsure of the nature of her infraction. Brady smiled at her indulgently. “First Corinthians instructs us that our bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit. By exercising, we honor God, who created us in his image. Now, I know Barbara strives to live according to the ways of our Savior, but”—he paused, holding his index finger in the air—“even well-intentioned activities can be fraught with sinfulness, if we are not vigilant.”

At the word sinfulness Barbara’s expression grew more concerned. The entire congregation watched her, as Brady knew they would. “You may think that yoga, with its stretching and breathing techniques, is a peaceful way to exercise and relax after a hard day’s work. But don’t be fooled. Yoga is not Christian. Yoga is Hindu in origin and practice. Of course, these teachers won’t portray it as religious at first, but one day you’re touching your toes, and then before you know it, you’re chanting in Sanskrit, trying to find God within yourself.”

Reverend Brady’s grip tightened on Barbara’s shoulder. He looked from her to the vaulted ceiling forty feet above them, increasing the volume of his voice. “God, our Father almighty, creator of the universe, and judge over all mankind: these so-called yogis would have you believe that the supreme being is located in a breath or in a flower.” He shook his head in disgust. “But we know better, don’t we?”

“We do,” the congregation replied in unison.

“You tell me, what is the one and only path to God?” he shouted.

“Through our Lord Jesus Christ,” they responded.

Brady lowered his voice again. “If it were possible to reach God through self-discovery, then why would he have sent Jesus to us?”

The reverend looked into Barbara’s reddened eyes and brushed her tearstreaked cheek. “I don’t fault you, dear. The devil comes in many disguises. In Second Corinthians, chapter eleven, verse fourteen, Paul writes, ‘Satan himself masquerades as an angel of light.’” Brady prided himself on his facility with the holy scripture and his ability to come up with a verse to fit any occasion.

“From the beginning of time, Satan has targeted the fairer gender. Just as Eve succumbed to the temptation of eating the forbidden fruit from the tree of knowledge, women today flock to these yoga centers, seeking to find themselves through meditation and other Eastern practices that promote selfknowledge. But hasn’t that fruit been tasted before? These practices will not lead you to God; they will not erase your sins. They will only open your hearts and your minds to dark influences. Our apostle John says in chapter one, verse ten, ‘If they come any to you and bring not this doctrine, receive him not into your house.’ Whose house do you want to be in, Barbara?”

In a whisper she replied, “God’s house.”

Pulling her out of her chair and to her feet, he asked, “Are you ready today, Barbara, to reaffirm your belief in Jesus as the only way to everlasting life?”

“I am.”

Brady raised his hands in the air palms up, and Barbara mimicked him. “In the name of our Savior Jesus Christ, you are forgiven, Barbara Howell. Follow in the Lord’s path, and you shall receive his grace.” Relieved and drained, she collapsed back into her seat as a runner might fall to the curb in exhaustion after crossing the finish line of a race.

Climbing back onstage, the reverend addressed the whole congregation. “Today we have witnessed the courage of one woman. Do you also have the courage to accept Jesus?”

“We do!” they shouted.

“These are precisely the dangers I discuss in my humble little book.” Brady glanced at the giant screen above the stage that displayed a ten-foot-tall projection of the cover of his recently published book, Why Is God So Angry? Under the bold lettering of the title, and the even larger type of his name, was a picture of Brady gazing upward at a wooden cross suspended in a dark, foreboding sky. “Thanks to your support, we now have over three hundred thousand copies of the book in print.” The crowd erupted in cheers. “And that’s only four months after being published!”

Brady paused to allow the applause to die down. Then he began to quote from the first chapter of his book: “The calamities our country has faced in recent times—the hurricanes along our coast, terrorism on our soil, the collapse of our economy—are punishments directed at our formerly Christian nation, which, like the Jewish people in the Old Testament, has lost its way from God. The evils of our permissive society have turned us into a modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah: drugs, abortion, promiscuity, and”—he raised his voice—“our so-called tolerance of other religions that encourage the worship of false idols that have polluted the minds of our citizens.” Brady lowered the pitch of his voice but increased the volume even more. “We have forgotten the warning of First Timothy, chapter two, verse five: ‘For there is one God, and one mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus.’”

The screen above Brady flashed from his book cover to a three-dimensional computer rendering of a town square centered around a huge church. “This lesson today underscores the importance of the greatest undertaking this church has ever attempted. Of course, I’m referring to the ongoing construction of the New Hope Community. Just twelve miles from here and twenty-four months from completion, our new church is truly evidence that the Lord is smiling down on us. Our community will be a place where you and your children can live and grow in God’s image, a sanctuary of hope away from the evil influences of other religions. Our new gym will offer Christian stretching classes,” he said, winking at Barbara, who smiled up at him, “set to the sounds of our own gospel choir. Your kids can learn martial arts, but they will bow before the Ten Commandments posted on the walls, not some self-proclaimed sensei spouting confusing Zen statements.”

He softened his voice. “I feel so humble to be in the presence of each of you. For you are the ones making God’s plan for our community a reality. Your generous contributions to the Lord have made this dream possible. And we are so close. We are so close, but we are not there yet. I must ask each of you to look deep inside yourselves and ask whether you can give just a little more. We don’t want to shortchange God’s vision. I hope that when you get a phone call next week from our volunteers, you will do what you can.”

Reverend Brady moved to the altar in the center of the stage. “Please take a moment with me to pray silently as we ask for God’s guidance with this holy project.”

Brady knelt at the altar, turning his back on the congregation, who dutifully bowed their heads. A stillness fell over the sanctuary. After three minutes of silence, interrupted only by a few muffled coughs, Brady rose just before the audience grew restless and turned to face his people. His eyes remained closed. Tears streamed down his face. He opened his arms wide, palms upwards. “Can you feel it?” he cried. “The power of our prayer. Can you feel it? The presence of God is here, today, right now. Can you feel it?”

An elderly man in a wheelchair at the back of the church proclaimed in a voice that seemed too strong for his frail body, “God is with us! Hallelujah!” A number of people joined the reverend in his tears.

“Something special is happening here today,” Brady cried out. “We are witnessing something sacred and holy. Come to us, Lord Christ!”

With his last exclamation, the people erupted into a chorus of amens and praise Gods. Brady opened his eyes and surveyed the upturned faces in their ecstasy. The man in the front row had cinched his eyes closed, while his chapped lips mouthed a silent prayer. Leaning on the altar railing, Brady bent over and removed his black Ferragamo loafers. He presented his shoes to the crowd. “We are on sacred ground here today. Let us not soil it with our dirty shoes.” As the five thousand rustled to remove their shoes as well, Brady knelt again in prayer, but this time he faced the audience. His shoes lay on the ground in front of him.

After the rustling quieted, Brady opened his eyes and said, “Praise Jesus.” Without waiting for a response, he picked up his shoes, stood, and walked past the band off the stage.

Once he disappeared through the side curtains, the stunned congregation erupted into the loudest cheers Brady had ever heard. The band and choir took their cue and launched into “Cruising with Jesus,” one of their popular rock-inspired songs. Backstage, Brady strode past the lighting and sound technicians who hovered over their control boards. He stopped by a bank of video monitors overseen by a thin, balding man in a charcoal suit. Brady took the towel the man offered and wiped his face.

“I was really good today, William, wasn’t I?” Brady said more as a statement of fact than as a question needing an answer.

“It was one of your best. You owned them,” replied William Jennings, director of operations of New Hope.

Brady smiled at his number two as he tossed the damp towel, stained with tears, sweat, and smudges of bronze foundation, back to him and continued walking down the corridor.